


There's a Design

by Dira Sudis (dsudis)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-05
Updated: 2009-12-05
Packaged: 2017-10-04 04:35:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsudis/pseuds/Dira%20Sudis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"I need you to be all right," Castiel said, because angels did not lie. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	There's a Design

**Author's Note:**

> I may occasionally impersonate the people who own the Winchesters and _Supernatural_, but I do it really badly. My badge says _Bikini Inspector_.
> 
> Beta thanks to Iulia!
> 
> This story was first posted on March 17, 2009.

"You're sure," Castiel repeated. "I could take another vessel."

His vessel pushed assent at him for the third and final time, well-mixed with impatience and something Castiel had come to recognize as a very human affection. Castiel pushed back with a sense of absolute serenity and the unrelenting love of God as he sent his vessel's consciousness down into oblivion again.

After that it was just a matter of finding the moment and moving on it. Castiel had been one the Almighty's foot soldiers since the beginning of Creation, and this was far from his most challenging mission. If its success was not entirely certain... well, nothing was, in these difficult times and in this imperfect world.

He stood in the parking lot of another in the long series of motels and watched, unseen, as Sam Winchester stormed out. Sam hesitated at the Impala for a moment, then shook his head, muttered an obscenity, and stalked off in the direction where neon light indicated a bar. Castiel wasted no time, slipping into the motel room as soon as Sam was safely away.

Dean was sitting on the nearer bed with his back to the door, head in hands. "Sammy, can we just not--"

He sounded defeated, on the verge of breaking. Castiel interrupted, making his voice deliberately gentle--overt confrontation would not serve his purpose tonight. "Dean."

Dean didn't move for a long moment, and then he raised his head, looking over his shoulder. He simply stared, from eyes which showed neither surprise nor wariness. Castiel had chosen the right time in that respect, at least; Dean was too drained to lash out first.

The full remembrance of Hell was too much for a human, even Dean Winchester, to bear long without breaking. Recent events--and the effort of behaving for his brother as if he were only half as affected by it all as he was--were only adding to the strain.

Castiel was conscious, as always, of the long odds against them and the thousand things that all must be attended to immediately if they were to have any chance of victory. It was not the first time lately that he had come to a task and wondered if he were already too late.

"Castiel. What now?"

He was here, now--attending to this one thing, this quiet mission. If Dean were broken, surely he was not beyond repair. Castiel walked inside and sat down on the bed opposite Dean; Dean watched him all the way without meeting his eyes.

"I need you to be all right," Castiel said, because angels did not lie, even if they disguised themselves, even if they left out the vast majority of the truth. Humans could not hold it all.

Dean exhaled a sharp breath, neither a laugh nor a sigh, and said, "Yeah, well, you can't always get--things. Sorry."

"Let me help you," Castiel said, choosing not to point out that he did, in fact, intend to get what he needed (what he wanted was... to serve, of course; there was nothing else). "I can give you what _you_ need."

He reached out as he said it, cupping his hand to Dean's cheek. He was a little surprised that Dean allowed it without any objection--but Dean was obviously too worn down to object to much of anything. Castiel wondered if he was going to have to rethink his approach. He might have erred too much on the side of getting Dean to be quiet enough for this; he might have to get combative just to get Dean to be present.

Dean closed his eyes, retreating behind that shield. "The thing you did, before. You can make people stop. Make them sleep. Can you do that? Sam--Sam says I gotta rest, but I just can't sleep. Can't shut it off."

Castiel studied Dean's unguarded features. For all Dean was a warrior, placed back on the earth for that very purpose, he was a creation--a child--of God, as beautiful and fragile as any of them.

"I could," Castiel agreed, shifting his fingers a little against Dean's cheek to bring his attention to the touch before taking it away. He pressed just the tips of two fingers to Dean's forehead, between his eyebrows where the little crease of tension showed. It was entirely within his power, though it would gain Dean little and Castiel nothing. "That would be here. This..."

He shifted his hand back again, to the place it fit so well, these two bodies able to connect in a way an angel alone could not reach a man, and perhaps could never reach Dean Winchester at all. "This is something else. I think it would be a better solution to your current problem."

Dean opened his eyes. He tilted his head a little under Castiel's hand but still did not pull away. There was, at last, a spark of curiosity in his gaze. His lips parted, but Dean did not ask the question.

Castiel brushed his thumb over the fullness of Dean's lower lip. This one thing, here, now, which was within his power, and could help Dean, and through him all Creation, Castiel included. He could do this one thing.

Dean's eyes went wide, and a beat later he jerked away from Castiel's touch. Castiel folded his hands, letting them hang between his knees.

"You--you do not mean--" Dean said, but his eyes were still wide, a flush blooming in stark contrast to the grey circles under his eyes.

"Would you like me to be more explicit?" Castiel tilted his head and watched conflicted emotions cross Dean's face. He could have pressed deeper, read Dean's thoughts directly, but this was a matter of action, not of ideas. If this were to happen, it must happen between his body and Dean's, and it was only appropriate that he employ the plain senses of his vessel to gauge Dean's reactions.

Dean made some motion that was neither a nod nor a headshake, and Castiel shrugged and slid to his knees between Dean's feet, his hands parting to hover just above Dean's thighs without touching. Dean jerked backward again; he made to stand, and got just as far as bringing the tensed muscles of his thighs up into Castiel's hands, then froze and sat back down.

"You--isn't that--aren't there _rules_?" Dean sounded almost plaintive, but his eyes were still wide and dark, and there was no sign that he was actually uninterested. Merely disbelieving.

As if he'd just realized that, Dean looked away and added unconvincingly, "What makes you think I would want to, anyway?"

"I know you, Dean," Castiel said patiently, allowing his hands to rest gently against Dean's thighs. Dean's body temperature was detectably elevated, and though he wasn't moving the muscles were still tense under Castiel's hands. "I also know that neither you nor I are bound by Mosaic laws of ritual purity."

Dean's gaze snapped back to meet Castiel's with a wary look of confusion--but at least he was _reacting_ now. Castiel's estimation had been correct; sex _was_ the one reliable way of getting Dean to participate.

The one that wasn't threats of mortal danger, anyway. Danger would have been counterproductive, given what Castiel ultimately hoped to accomplish.

"I mean that it's not actually wrong for us to have sex with each other, despite what you may have read," Castiel elaborated.

"But you're--won't you--" Dean looked away, and his voice was low, gruffly abashed, as though what he was saying were shameful. "I try not to mess around with people who shouldn't be messing around with me. I'm not worth--"

"You have no idea what you're worth," Castiel said firmly, and that, at least, was nowhere near a lie. The realization that Dean was giving thought to protecting _him_, after everything, was... humbling, and something to consider at some other time, when Castiel could devote himself to it properly. "Dean, I promise you, this will not cause me to fall. It isn't wrong, and neither of us will be punished for it."

The whole of what Castiel meant to do here tonight could, in certain respects, from certain angles of view, be seen as unkind or overbearing, but neither of those traits were incompatible with the workings of angels. The standards by which he would be judged were very simple, and this act would be at worst neutral in that light, if not actually commendable.

"I don't get this," Dean said, and his mouth was open to say more, but their time was limited--they must of necessity do this in the material world, within the strictures that imposed. With all Castiel could do, Sam wouldn't stay gone forever, and if Castiel let Dean dig his heels in this debate could go on for hours.

Castiel shifted one hand to Dean's shoulder, tugged him down just a little, and kissed him.

Dean jerked back after the first instant of contact, gasping like he'd had his head underwater, but when Castiel squeezed his shoulder, Dean came back with a kiss of his own, fierce and fast.

Castiel allowed it, accepting the rough pressure of Dean's mouth on his and yielding to it. The intimacy was fascinating, this method humans had devised to press themselves close to one another, to fuse themselves momentarily into a single being. The body he occupied was certainly attuned even to this limited touch; his heart beat faster and blood gathered in his groin, his penis already stirring.

Dean pulled back sharply again, distracting Castiel from cataloguing the sensations of kissing. "Wait, wait, this is a mercy fuck."

Castiel considered the assertion. Dean's idiom implied something shameful, but not something substantially different from what Castiel was doing. Castiel would not lie to him about this, not in words. "Yes, this is a mercy fuck. That is precisely correct."

Dean was wild-eyed and wet-lipped. "I'm getting mercy-fucked by an angel."

Castiel raised his eyebrows, and let a hint of challenge into his voice. "Would you prefer to be patted on the head and sent to sleep by an angel?"

Dean blinked a couple of times and then shook himself. "No. No. I just--didn't realize you did this."

"I do a lot of things," Castiel assured him--not a lie even if it was quite a pointed deflection. He had no particular need to explain to Dean that, in fact, he never had done this, and even if he had it would have been thousands of years ago, when he had last walked the earth clothed in a human vessel. His vessel had done this much more recently, so the body knew what it was doing, and Castiel certainly possessed all the relevant information.

Castiel pushed up a little to resume kissing, hesitating when he was close enough to feel Dean's breath on his lips. Dean's eyes were still open wide, too close to be anything but a blur of green.

Dean sighed and let his eyes close, surrendering himself into another kiss. He put his hands on Castiel for the first time, one on his cheek, the other on his shoulder.

"Okay, okay," Dean murmured, though without pulling away this time, so the words only added to the accumulating momentum of sensation. "But the beard burn is going to be epic."

Castiel drew breath to ask, but Dean's fingers rasped gently over his stubbled cheek, illustrating the point. Friction, coarse hair.

"Ah," Castiel said. "I can do something about that."

Bizarrely, at that moment--on the basis of that bare assertion, as he hadn't even done anything yet--Dean looked actually impressed with him. Even more bizarrely, Castiel experienced it as a triumph. He should have done this months ago; Dean might have been much easier to manage in several respects.

Castiel took the lead in the next kiss, before Dean could decide to make yet another pointless observation. Kneeling as he was between Dean's legs, Castiel felt it when Dean's thighs sagged slightly further open, his weight shifting where he sat in a manner that Castiel somehow knew to interpret as inviting. He shifted one hand up Dean's thigh, settling it lightly over his stirring erection.

Dean made a startled sound, not entirely in the negative, and Castiel closed his hand more firmly. Dean's hand on his shoulder tightened, and Dean's hips hitched up under his grip. "You are seriously--serious."

"Yes," Castiel affirmed, holding to his serenity though his vessel's body was quickening, eager to be closer, to feel more. He experimented with a slight rubbing motion, knowing that friction was an essential feature of the experience.

Dean's breath caught in a way that seemed definitely positive, but he closed a hand tightly on Castiel's wrist. He was promisingly breathless as he said, "Okay, hold up--clothes."

"Oh," Castiel said. "Of course."

He suffered a momentary impulse to simply banish them, his and Dean's both--but that was the body, altered patterns of blood flow and surging hormones. Such a display would likely require a lot more talking from Dean, anyway, and slow them down in the end.

Castiel shifted his weight back onto his heels and stood. He took his attention away from Dean for a moment, shrugging off his coat and looking for a neutral place to set it down. There was a chair not too far from the end of the bed. He draped the coat there, then laid the tie on top of it, and looked toward Dean again as he started unbuttoning his shirt.

Dean was still perched on the edge of the bed, staring at Castiel. He allowed his tone to sharpen slightly as he said, "Dean?"

He jolted into motion at that, jumping to his feet and ducking his head as he pulled his shirt off without bothering to unbutton it, taking the undershirt beneath along with it. Castiel's hands moved steadily over his buttons as he watched Dean's belly and chest bared, spotting the scar on his shoulder first, and then the protective tattoo above his heart. The amulet he wore on a leather thong (pagan, but infused far more with love of family than idolatry) remained, glinting bright against his skin in the yellow lamplight.

Castiel let his own shirt slide down his arms and laid it neatly aside, and then pulled off his undershirt over his head. When he looked at Dean again, Dean was standing perfectly still, hands at the fastening of his pants, staring.

"You--" Dean's voice came out hollow, and he stopped and swallowed hard, then started again. "Wow, you have tattoos. I wasn't expecting..."

Castiel had moved on automatically to unfastening his belt and pants, but he took his hands from that task to briefly touch the marks he could easily reach--a complex, crisp design of initials on his chest, a cruder chain circling his upper arm. "My vessel has led a complicated life. Faith such as his does not arise in comfortable surroundings."

Not for the first time, Castiel was tempted to point out that he and Dean were not so very different, that they might like one another quite a lot if they ever met while in full possession of themselves. This seemed like an infelicitous time to mention it, however, so Castiel let the implication linger unstated.

Dean said nothing, and Castiel remembered to crouch and untie his shoes before pushing down his pants. When he straightened up, nudging his shoes neatly under the chair with his toes, Dean's dumbfounded stare had advanced into scrutiny. "Your vessel..."

"My vessel prayed for an opportunity to serve the Lord," Castiel said, and paused in undressing to meet Dean's eyes steadily. "Even in this manner, Dean. I asked him first."

Dean's face contorted in thought. This was the dangerous moment; if Dean stuck on this point they might not get past it. Castiel stepped out of his pants.

Dean said, "Boxers. Wait, is he _here_?"

Castiel paused with his thumbs hooked in the waistband of his boxers while he tried to parse Dean's question. "He's not aware now. He's not watching."

Dean would know, of course, something of what a victim of demon possession suffered; he had reason to fear the parallel, and Dean's most ferocious anger always arose from fear.

"_Boxers_," Dean repeated, evidently fixated. He looked down at his hands, which worried idly at the fly of his jeans, and then straightened up and met Castiel's eyes, standing very tall and very still.

"Castiel, you gotta swear--swear to me that he's all right with this. Because it's not gonna help me sleep nights if..."

Castiel closed the distance between them and pressed his hand flat to Dean's bare chest, his palm to the sigil of protection inked under Dean's skin, the only mark he had brought through death with him. He could feel the pounding of Dean's heart, the rapid rise and fall of his breath, and he held Dean's gaze steadily, noting the way the darkness of pupil was beginning to edge out the surrounding green.

"Dean, I swear to you, I am acting with my vessel's knowledge and consent."

It would only complicate matters even further to specify to Dean that his vessel's first--incredulously delighted--assent had included a logistically daunting desire for photographs.

Dean searched his eyes--as though the body Castiel inhabited could reveal the truth to Dean, as though it could even _hold_ the entire truth of what Castiel was. Castiel looked back, allowing Dean to search for whatever he might find.

"You pretended to be Bobby," Dean said, still more weary than angry. "I don't--can I even believe you when you say that?"

"Can you believe there's a difference between me and a demon?" Castiel asked. Dean's behavior suggested that he believed precisely that, but there was always the chance that Dean was _more_ cynical than Castiel had given him credit for.

Dean's mouth drew up tight, but he gave Castiel a bare nod.

"We most often disguise ourselves--in human vessels, and in other ways--when we communicate with humans. I took on the semblance of your friend while speaking to Sam for the same reason I wear this body; so that you can hear my message without wasting precious time on what I am. We disguise ourselves, Dean, but the words we speak are true. I swear to you: this man consents."

Dean swallowed and nodded, perhaps a little cowed by Castiel's seriousness, and mercifully unaware that he could undo all Castiel's efforts by asking the right questions directly. Dean's acquiescence gave Castiel an opening for one other gambit.

He waited until Dean had nodded slightly, his attention shifting from Castiel's words to the proximity of their bodies, which Castiel himself was ignoring by a powerful force of will. He dropped his hand, and gave his voice a slightly questioning intonation, as if he did not perfectly understand the implication of the words.

"He did say he prefers to be on top."

Dean's chin jerked up, and Castiel braced for resistance, argument, bluster and posturing and quintessential Dean Winchester refusal to lie down without a fight. Dean held his gaze for the space of several heartbeats--his own heart seemed to be speeding as much as Dean's had, under his touch--and then he shrugged and looked down again. "You and your mercy. Sure, why not."

Castiel felt off-balance then--as if there was suddenly no more ground under his feet, as if he stood in this fragile form at the edge of an abyss. He'd come close to being too late, dangerously close. They had already suffered enough losses.

Dean shoved his jeans down, letting them catch on his booted feet, and then huffed an irritated breath.

"Let me," Castiel said, kneeling, and Dean went suddenly, utterly still. Castiel's shoulder pressed against Dean's knee as he bent over the bootlaces, working them free by touch. He was on firm ground again, touching Dean. They both were. Castiel kept his head bowed, his eyes closed, and let his cheek brush the warm bare skin of Dean's thigh, just below the edge of Dean's boxers.

Dean made a little sound, swaying as Castiel tugged the laces free.

"It's all right," Castiel said, keeping his voice distant, his head down, as if he had no idea he might be having any effect on Dean. "Lean on me. Pick your foot up."

Dean touched his shoulder--two, then three fingertip points of contact--and allowed only the barest fraction of his weight to rest on the touch as he raised one foot. Castiel tugged the unlaced boot free and moved on to the other, leaving Dean's pants around his ankles for the moment. He shifted, jostling Dean just slightly, pressing himself against Dean's leg before he'd settled himself.

Dean's hand flattened on his shoulder, a little more of his weight coming down on Castiel before he caught his own balance. Dean left his hand where it was even when he was steady again, and Castiel felt as though he'd successfully conveyed a small lesson.

"Pick up," he said, and this time Dean leaned on him without hesitation while Castiel pulled his boot off. Castiel looked up as Dean put his foot down. Dean's boxers made a rather insubstantial barrier to his arousal, being quite obviously distended. Even though Dean straightened up when Castiel lifted his head, it was still only a matter of rising up on his knees.

"Whoa, wait," Dean gritted. "You don't have to--"

"All right," Castiel said, just to quiet him. Even as he said it, he swayed forward a little, letting his lips, still tingling faintly from Dean's kisses, brush against the cotton which strained to conceal Dean's erection. Dean's breath choked off entirely.

The fabric was hot against his mouth, faintly dampened even before he breathed against it. He could feel the living heat behind it, the firmness of Dean's erection, and he let his lips part, pressing his tongue out between them to taste. The dryness of cotton and bitter taste of detergent did not entirely hide the salt-musk taste of Dean's arousal. He pushed with his tongue, letting saliva further dampen the cloth, and Dean's hand was suddenly on his head, fingers pressing spasmodically against his scalp.

"Cas, wait--"

The shortened form of his name was another intimacy, the touch of Dean's hand a measure of Dean's lost control. Castiel reached for the waistband of Dean's boxers, and Dean made a strangled noise, his hand clenching in Castiel's hair, a painful tug on the strands.

Still, he didn't push Castiel away, and the sound hadn't seemed negative, merely urgent. His body seemed to find the slight pain no deterrent--his mouth still watered, and blood still raced to his groin. Castiel accepted the implicit guidance of his vessel and eased Dean's boxers down, revealing his erection, blood-flushed, the tip shiny with moisture.

The next step was obvious. Castiel let his lips touch first, to feel the frantic heat, the muscular hardness, and then let them slide apart and pressed his tongue to the head. The sharp flavor of Dean exploded on his tongue, a dizzying height of pure sensation.

Dean exhaled something close to a sob, and his hand shoved gently at Castiel's cheek, nearly caressing even as it pushed him away. Castiel leaned back obediently, looking up to find that Dean's other hand was a clenched fist, pressed to his mouth. Into his mouth, in fact; he was biting down on his knuckles.

Castiel stood, letting Dean's hand fall away from his face. Dean watched him with wide, dark eyes and did not lower his hand. Castiel touched two fingers to the stretched corner of Dean's mouth, where the skin under the stubble was a little pink with irritation. He released the mere hint of healing required for so slight an injury, and the faint friction-burn disappeared, startling Dean into unclenching his teeth.

Castiel ran his fingers over the tooth-marks on Dean's knuckles, for the sake of thoroughness. "I didn't intend for you to hurt yourself."

"No, I--" Dean looked down at his now-unmarked hand and back to Castiel, with the sort of wonder on his face that Castiel usually felt when he considered the greatness of Creation.

Castiel waited patiently for Dean to gather his thoughts, even as the taste of Dean still lingered on his tongue, sharpening all his senses and spurring the body's longing for completion.

"I can't," Dean said, his eyes fixed over Castiel's shoulder, his jaw working as he tried to force out the words. "Before--I can't--_fuck_."

Dean's hands went to the waistband of Castiel's boxers as he gave up on speaking, while Castiel was still trying to interpret his half-spoken objection. Castiel had clearly done something that Dean did not like, or could not bear, but just as clearly Dean could not bring himself to speak of it. Given that he was stripping away the last of Castiel's clothes, whatever it had been clearly had not changed his mind about the rest of what they were about to do.

Dean's hands followed the undergarment down Castiel's thighs, fingers brushing lightly down his skin until the boxers fell away. The touch seemed to exert an impact entirely disproportionate to pressure; Castiel's whole body tensed despite Dean's gentleness. Then, without speaking, Dean wrapped one hand around Castiel's erection, and gave it a quick, firm stroke. It felt entirely unlike his own experience of handling his vessel's body, the same essential sensation magnified and intensified. He closed his eyes and curled his hands into fists, trying to contain the feeling of power and energy rushing through him, gathering at the touch of Dean's hand.

Dean made a soft sound. Castiel opened his eyes to look, and found Dean smiling, widely and thoughtlessly. It was so welcome a sight--and so unfamiliar, directed at himself--that Castiel, off balance and off his guard, could not help smiling back. Dean laughed outright, then, and repeated the stroke. Castiel's eyes fluttered shut and quickly open, to watch Dean's face.

He saw the kiss coming, and leaned into it. After a brief brush of mouths, Dean murmured, "You have no idea what you just got yourself into, do you, Cas?"

Castiel licked his lips--and perforce Dean's--and whispered back, "I don't believe I've gotten into anything, just yet."

Dean pulled away, looking stunned. "Castiel, angel of the Lord. You just made a joke. A _dirty_ joke."

Castiel was reasonably certain that jokes were actually a more complex linguistic feat--he had, at most, committed a weak play on words--but when he opened his mouth to say so, Dean moved his hand again, and the sound that issued from Castiel's lips was entirely inarticulate. The sensation was less shocking this time, if no less intense, and Castiel finally summoned the presence of mind to mirror Dean's action; Dean's smile twisted a little at the touch of Castiel's hand, the flush on his cheeks brightening, but of course it was hardly a novel experience for him. Still, when Castiel brushed his thumb over the place his tongue had touched, Dean's breathing stuttered.

"Okay, okay, you learn fast," Dean said, as though conceding some argument Castiel did not recall beginning. "Tell me you brought lube and we'll be getting somewhere."

Castiel crooked the fingers of his left hand, without taking his right from Dean, and the bottle was there, in his palm. The contents were blood-warm with the overflow of power. He held up the bottle, and Dean's eyes went wide.

Castiel remembered too late that Dean might be inclined to react counterproductively to this sort of reminder of Castiel's nature, but Dean put his hands to either side of Castiel's face and kissed him soundly. "_There_ you go, using your powers for awesome."

Castiel barely had time to miss the touch of Dean's hand before Dean was tugging him toward the bed, falling backward and pulling Castiel after him. Castiel caught himself well enough to keep from landing his full weight on Dean, but in the next instant he found himself thrusting down against him--the experience of full body contact, feeling Dean's erection pressing up against his own, was overwhelming all over again.

Dean bucked up in response, and Castiel knew better, in some remote sense, but still reacted to it as a challenge, forcing Dean flat and pushing back harder. Dean vented a breath--some odd mixture of a laugh and a snarl--and when he thrust up against Castiel again, in addition to the shockingly pleasurable friction there was the shift and slide of Dean's legs parting around his hips. Dean was only fighting to yield, not to escape.

Castiel forced himself to be still, and Dean bit his lip, curling his hips tighter. "Tell me--tell me in words that you know what to do now."

"I know what to do now," Castiel stated, as perfectly truthfully as Dean might wish.

Dean rolled his eyes and then closed them, letting his head fall back. Castiel sat back on his heels, Dean's legs splayed over his thighs. Dean was not still, not as entirely surrendered to him as he might seem at a glance--his hands opened and closed, clutching at the bedspread, and one heel bounced behind Castiel. But Dean had his chin tipped up, showing his throat, and his hands at his sides, his legs spread. It was as perfect an act of submission as Dean was likely to be able to give. The moment deserved to be savored.

Dean picked his head up, squinting. "Do you know that you should get on with it? Today?"

Castiel folded forward and silenced Dean with a kiss, which Dean apparently took as more delay, biting Castiel's lip even as he flexed his hips up against Castiel. Castiel closed his hand on the bottle in his hand and--as Dean put it--used his powers for awesome, coating his fingers in lubricant without the bother of actually opening the cap.

He sat back again, and Dean followed the kiss for a few inches before falling back to the bed. Castiel gave him no time to become impatient before pressing a finger to his entrance, and Dean's head fell back again on a long, slow exhalation as his body yielded to Castiel's touch. Castiel stroked slowly into Dean, watching his hands and the line of his throat for the moment he was about to demand more, and then pressing a second finger in before he could speak.

Dean's hips jerked at that, and an experimental twisting of fingers made Dean blaspheme almost inaudibly, his legs tightening around Castiel. He chose to take that in the spirit in which it was evidently meant, and added more lubricant and a third finger as he wrapped his free hand around Dean's erection.

Dean grabbed at Castiel's knee, his back arching, and he gasped, "Cas--fucking--please, please--_Cas_."

"Shh," Castiel murmured, removing his hand from Dean's penis to settle it lightly on his chest, withdrawing his fingers from Dean to prepare himself. He had to shift up onto his knees, but Dean moved with him, clutching at Castiel's shoulder and raising his legs. Castiel pushed slowly into him--slowly, though he was suddenly desperate for more, faster and harder.

When he was fully within Dean, Castiel had to close his own eyes, biting his lip to hold in his voice, to hold himself fully here within this body as its senses were overpowered. This joining--this communion--

"Oh, fuck," Dean whispered, his voice strained and reverent at once, "I am actually closer to God."

Castiel shuddered. It was not God he felt most conscious of now, but Dean--His fierce, beautiful, mortal creation. Dean was hot and tight around him, his legs clamped to Castiel's hips and his hand on Castiel's shoulder, the taste of him lingering in Castiel's mouth. The experience was entirely material, carnal, and almost unbearably immediate. All of him, all Castiel was, was fixed here, now, in this one moment, with this one man.

"_Cas_." Dean's voice was nearly a growl, and he arched against Castiel with a grunt of effort.

"Yes," Castiel murmured, bracing one hand beside Dean's head and wrapping the other around Dean's erection. He stroked in time to his own movements inside Dean, and Dean writhed under him, his hands running over Castiel's shoulders--fingers tracing his lips--restlessly, constantly in motion as Castiel drove relentlessly onward. In, and in, and in, seeking to be closer, deeper. The need to see Dean come apart beneath him was no less desperately urgent than the demands of his own body.

Dean struggled with him, against him, seeking the same completion. His nails scored Castiel's skin, and he mouthed an effortlessly intelligible stream of utter nonsense. It all meant _now_ and _more_ and _yes_. Castiel did his best to oblige, driving harder into Dean, stroking faster, until Dean's eyes flashed wide--meeting his for the first time since Castiel had pushed inside him--and he spilled over Castiel's fingers.

Castiel had to look away to keep control, trying to draw himself tight within his vessel's body--not his own, but he had never inhabited it more fully, never felt himself so tightly embraced by skin and bone. He had never been so entirely grounded in the mortal and material world as when Dean's body shook under his.

Dean's fingers touched his forehead--just between his eyebrows, where Castiel had offered Dean peace--and Castiel broke. He heard his breath leave him in a rush, and then he was moving again--desperate to be gentle, with Dean lying easy beneath him, but Dean's fingers slid to the back of his neck, fingernails digging in again, driving him on. Castiel let go, thrusting into Dean's body with all the ferocity of this unfamiliar desire, and was finally released into a momentary ecstasy, his awareness stretching strangely beyond and within his body and Dean's as he reached completion.

When his borrowed body had returned to a more normal state, he was lying with his forehead against Dean's shoulder, and Dean was squirming a little beneath him. Castiel breathed a soothing word against Dean's skin, bracing a hand against Dean's hip as he withdrew himself. Dean only rolled away to lie on his side, and Castiel's body followed almost without his volition, pressing against Dean's back. Another half-voiced word for purification, and they were clean.

Dean laughed briefly at that; Castiel wasn't sure whether because it tickled a little or in simple delight. He smiled himself, at the ease obvious in Dean's body, Dean's stillness--Dean's _laughter_\--and was glad of it, as if a battle had been won.

The realization brought him up short. It was true; he was glad of the thing itself, for Dean's happiness and comfort, for their lingering closeness. This act was a means to an end--an end not yet certain, in fact--and he had believed, beforehand, that he could simply execute the task. He had thought he understood what he was going to do here, a straightforward mechanical interaction of two bodies.

Instead he was lying in bed with Dean--still keeping to the bounds of this body, still limiting all of himself to this one task, glad that all times were as one to him, that he had no reason not to stay here as long as Dean would permit him. He felt the love of God for all Creation narrowing in him, to privilege this one man, as though any one man--or any one angel--were more worthy of care than any other.

He had told himself Dean had strategic value and thus merited unique handling, but he cared little for strategy right now. And the thought of Dean going into battle--perhaps falling, perhaps suffering yet another agonizing death of this beautifully reborn mortal shell--was no longer something he viewed with the requisite equanimity.

Mere minutes ago, he had blithely promised Dean that this act would not cause him to fall. Nor must it, yet, not inevitably. The feelings and desires of the body he inhabited might influence his thoughts, but so long as he remembered his purpose--so long as he served faithfully...

"You know," Dean said, his voice a warm rumble, sounding half-awake. "I really didn't peg you as the cuddling type."

Castiel shrugged, knowing Dean would feel the motion. It was nothing he had imagined either, but despite his troubled thoughts he felt no inclination to move, and Dean seemed entirely amenable.

Then, because they both needed to know the answer, Castiel asked, "How do you feel now?"

"I'm good," Dean murmured. Castiel felt him tense. "I'm--I'm--"

Dean pulled away in a quick, flailing movement, twisting to sit up and face him. "What did you _do_ to me?"

Castiel sighed and sat, mirroring Dean. He looked bewildered, but not truly angry, yet--of course not, because Dean's worst anger was always driven by fear, and if Castiel had done what he thought he had, Dean felt no fear now.

"I have shared myself with you," Castiel said. The thing had not been tried in millennia if it had ever been tried at all--not by angels, and not by this method. "You are experiencing a shadow of what it is to be an angel."

"I don't feel--" Dean ducked his head, touching his chest as though he could locate his errant emotions through his ribs. "I remember, but I don't--"

"You needed to be relieved of your guilt, and your fear," Castiel said patiently. "I need you to be able to fight with a clear head. We need you, Dean."

Dean looked up at that. "I should be really mad at you," Dean said slowly, as though working through a puzzle. "And then I should be freaked out that I'm not mad, because the angel mojo won't let me--but it's not letting me get freaked out, either. Holy shit--"

"Literally?" Castiel murmured, watching the light in Dean's eyes.

Dean snorted. "The point is--this was really fucking sneaky, Cas. You did what that yellow-eyed bastard did to Sammy. You got my permission for something without telling me the whole deal. _Mercy fuck_, ha."

"But I didn't harm you," Castiel pointed out. "And you are not an infant, and I got your permission, not your mother's, without any coercion, and I am not a demon. And... I am not sure it was only me who shared something of myself. Azazel never allowed that possibility, sharing through his blood."

Dean's lips parted--Castiel found he still wanted to kiss them, and then he did. The human expression about barn doors and horses was beginning to seem apt. Dean apparently agreed, because he tugged Castiel closer, and held on even after he ended the kiss.

"That's still fucked up, for the record," Dean said. "Even if it's not quite as fucked up as--"

"Spreading a sexually transmitted disease to twenty-seven people in six states the summer you were nineteen?"

Dean went quite still. "Okay, one, no way did I sleep with that many people--"

"It spread," Castiel assured him.

"--And two, I didn't even know I had it until we got to Colorado, and three, that is so not the same."

"Probably not," Castiel allowed. He'd mostly wanted to see whether Dean responded to the old sin with his typical excess of useless remorse. "But you didn't mind too much when I was 'using my powers for awesome'."

Dean sat back to meet his eyes again. "Dude. Do I have _powers_ now?"

Castiel blinked. He'd been--promoted?--to _dude_ now. And yet he suspected that Dean finally, genuinely believed himself to be on Castiel's side of this battle, which was bound to cut down on time spent arguing with him. "I don't--"

Dean tensed and turned his head toward the door. "Whoa, shit, I _do_. I can--wait, is that--"

"That's Sam," Castiel said firmly, putting his hands on Dean's shoulders--clearly Dean was perceiving Sam now somewhat as angels did, the taint of corruption manifest to his senses; Castiel himself felt it only dimly, with his perceptions filtered through his vessel, but even as much awareness as Castiel had now would be shocking to Dean, experiencing it for the first time.

Dean looked stricken. The veneer of detachment Castiel had been able to give Dean was obviously no match for his feelings toward his brother. "He's no different than when he left, Dean. You are."

"He's--he--" Dean lunged toward the direction of the door, and Castiel caught him and held him still. Dean struggled for a couple of seconds, then subsided, one hand gripping Castiel's arm, his eyes still fixed on the door. "Fuck--if he finds you here--"

"He won't notice me if I don't want him to," Castiel stated, because Dean showed no sign of wanting Castiel to solve the problem by leaving before he could be found. Dean's grip on him would be leaving bruises on a human, in fact. "Dean, lie down. Pretend to sleep. In the morning he won't seem so strange anymore. He's still Sam."

"Cas, he's--I can't--" Dean's gaze on the door was fixed, a potent combination of anxiety and ferocity; to his newly-awakened senses it must feel as if a monster approached, a breath of the Hell he had just escaped, wrapped up in the shape of his brother whom he loved above all else.

Castiel sighed, and the lights extinguished themselves as he tugged Dean down, dragging him under the covers. Dean struggled and nearly growled at him--he had not been able to summon anger for his own sake, but for Sam, of course, he would do anything--but Dean was easily overmatched, and Castiel was willing to force the matter, for Dean's sake. He placed his own body between Dean and the door, turning Dean to face into the room. Dean sighed and shut his eyes, lying rigid as a sword in Castiel's grip. Castiel glanced across the room and hid his clothes away even as he hid himself, and then a key turned in the lock and the door opened.

Sam entered slowly, stepping softly--it must sound like the stalking of a predator to Dean now.

"He doesn't want to wake you," Castiel breathed, for Dean's ears alone. "It's still Sam."

It was a direly incomplete truth--the demonic nature had a much stronger foothold in Sam these days than it had before--but Castiel needed Dean and Dean needed his brother, and none of them needed an altercation tonight. It might still be a strategic decision, might not be only Castiel's terrible new partiality.

"Dean?" Sam murmured, pausing between the beds. Castiel smoothed Dean's appearance, so that Sam would see him sleeping, and then Sam's hand came to rest on Dean's arm, just past where Castiel held him close.

Sam leaned in, bringing his face close to Dean's. He sniffed Dean's breath, then exhaled a laugh, only moderately alcoholic.

"Thank fucking God," Sam murmured, and for all the darkness of his nature, the sentiment was as sincere as it was crude, a welling of kindness and gratitude that brought the best of Sam's soul to the fore. Castiel felt it even with his vessel's limited senses, and he knew the moment when Dean felt it, too, the easing of his body under his brother's touch, when recognition finally won out over the new strangeness.

"Sam," Dean said, successfully counterfeiting sleepiness. "You okay?"

Not fear of his brother, Castiel understood, in those two low words. Fear _for_ his brother. For the first time, Dean directly perceived the peril Sam faced from the corruption of his blood. Dean squirmed one arm free of Castiel's grip and raised his hand to touch Sam's face, even as Sam laughed. "Yeah, I didn't even drive. I'm fine. Are _you_?"

Castiel felt it, faintly but probably with greater comprehension than Dean could muster--though the touch of Dean's fingers against Sam's cheek was perfectly dexterous, the instinctive push of his new gift was as clumsy as the waving of an infant's fist. Where Dean touched Sam, the darkness recoiled just a little, and left Sam more himself, more the beloved brother Dean had always known.

Sam jerked back from Dean's fingers--he'd felt something, but he wouldn't know what. Dean didn't sound sleepy at all as he said, "Yeah, Sammy, I'm good."

"Sure you are," Sam said, straightening up. "Go back to sleep, Dean."

Castiel kept still, watching and holding on to Dean as Sam picked his way to the bathroom in the dark. Dean was lying perfectly still now, at peace again, as though what he had just done were not extraordinary. Castiel could not even begin to imagine the ramifications--if Dean would walk where angels could not tread, as surely as Sam could walk out of a devil's trap...

It was enough, for now, to know that what he had given Dean was real, and would confer real advantages.

Castiel waited until the door had closed behind Sam to murmur, "I can go now, if--"

"Stay," Dean said, his voice low but steady, untouched by fear that he might desire the wrong thing. Dean laid his arm over Castiel's, holding on as tightly as he was held.

Castiel smiled in the dark, and settled down to take his rest.


End file.
